Amy shook her head, burying half of her face in one hand like she wanted to disappear. “He just doesn’t want to sometimes.”
“That lazy little shit.” The others glared at me. “What?”
We spent the next half hour alternating between slandering men in general and offering supportive ideas, like couples therapy. Amy seemed, however, even more miserable by the time we said good night.
In bed later, I couldn’t stop thinking about it—how was Amy surviving in such a drought?—so I sent a message to Sumira and Eva.
Rachel Weiss 10:17 PM:
Let’s get her some lingerie for Valentine’s Day.
Sumira Khan 10:19 PM:
Good idea.
Eva Galvez 10:22 PM:
I’m in.
Rachel Weiss 11:56 PM:
Seriously though. POOR AMY.
CHAPTER 3
IT WAS THE STARTof a beautiful week. A wintery sun was peeking through the clouds, my curls were bouncing like nobody’s business, and Stephen had sent me a naughty good-morning text. And yet by lunchtime, my mood had begun to sour. Customers were especially annoying today, and my manager, Kenneth, was Kennething about all morning. He had a way of talking to me where he tried so hard not to objectify me that his eyes went sort of crossed, and I never knew whether to laugh or cry.
Eva sent an update to the group chat, letting us know that Jennifer had completely iced her out in class and that she was having flashbacks to being bullied and alone in seventh grade. Amy chimed in to say that she hated high schoolers and her husband and everyone except for us. And then my mother began to call me, repeatedly, in the middle of a workday, trying to guilt me into coming over for dinner that night.
By midafternoon she’d recruited Jane to do her dirty work. Jane claimed that it would be a celebratory dinner now that the twins had their driver’s licenses. I pointed out that instead of having a dinner party, we should be building an underground shelter and handing out padded helmets to all the neighbors as aprecaution. She simply replied that she would be going and bringing Owen. So it looked like I was going. I was going to missThe Bachelorfor this.
As soon as I arrived I could tell something fishy was afoot. Mom and Jane answered the door together, both smiling fiendishly. Over their shoulders I could see that the table was set for ten—not seven. Though in my innocence I assumed the twins were having friends over. Mom gave my jeans and sweater a once-over, then touched her nose at Jane as though she were a secret agent in a poorly made movie.
Jane kept smiling in a pained way—always too nice to be a convincing liar—and asked me to come upstairs to help her change.
“Help you change?” I took in her cowl-neck dress and tights. “Why do you need to change?”
She cast a panicked look at Mom before the two of them grabbed my arms and frog-marched me up the stairs.
“What’s going on?” The foolishly optimistic part of me thought that maybe they had a belated Hanukkah present for me, so I didn’t resist. Stupid, stupid Rachel.
They hustled me into Mom and Dad’s room, and Mom locked the door behind us.
“Why did you lock the door?” My voice was shrill as it dawned on me that there would be no Hanukkah present.
“Shh,” Mom hushed soothingly as Jane rifled through a bag that had been stashed there in advance. She pulled out a black dress, and then she and Mom lunged at me and tugged my sweater over my head.
“Aggghh!” I yelled. “Help! Dad! Arrrgghh!”
We struggled. At one point, in my bra and with my jeans halfway down my bum, I made a run for it—this, at least, counting as my exercise for the day. At the top of the stairs, the twins cameout of their rooms to watch placidly as I stumbled, holding my jeans up with one hand and fending off Mom and Jane with the other.
“Nooooo!” I shrieked as they dragged me back toward the bedroom. “Help me!” I held out a pleading hand to the twins. Ollie pointed her phone’s camera at me and began filming. Abby waved, straight-faced, as I disappeared around the corner.
In the end, Mom and Jane wrestled me into the black dress of Jane’s. Jane’s wardrobe is all French chic, minimalistic elegance. In other words, completely wrong for me. I was squeezed into the dress like a sausage, the high neck pinching my armpits and cutting into my windpipe. I felt that if I moved too quickly, my breasts would burst through the fabric.
“Why?” I rasped as Mom slipped her circa-1983 kitten heels onto my feet. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“I’m sorry.” Jane swept my hair back into a twist. “Mom convinced me it would be a good idea. But now…” In the mirror, I saw her giving me a highly skeptical once-over.
